Shake The Stars Into Birth
by Leara Bribage
Summary: Fail in an uprising, and become an insurgent. Triumph, and you are proclaimed a revolutionary. These are the troubles of Les Amis pre-Barricade days, and they are in dire need of help from the children of France if they ever wish to set Patria free. Coterie squabbles, love-hate relationships, & old mercenary wars may prove to be messier than the émeute they're trying to win.
1. Chapter 1: April 7, 1832

A/N: This is an attempt to re-write my ghastly Un Coeur pour la Revolution. Similarities are thus bound to happen, but of course since that AU wasn't finished, here we are, and I am trying to make right by it.

 **Disclaimer:** Victor Hugo may be dead, but his memory lives. I am not about to claim to be him, so anything you can recognise from Les Miserables are his. The bastardising of his story, though, with the plot and the whole shenanigans are mine.

* * *

Chapter 1: April 7, 1832

Respect.

It is only through respect that Aurelien Enjolras managed not to choose to deflect the blows coming from his father, as he fell to the floor. A man of sixty years, yet his brute force has not faded, and one can only expect this from Olivier Enjolras, a former military officer. The younger wished he wasn't on the receiving end, but that was not to be as the elder repeatedly kicked his stomach and shins while shouting, "You obstinate child! I raised you to be monarchist in order to save you from corruption! How dare you betray this household with your childish play at Sorbonne?"

He could no longer keep his silence when his father continued to lay more comment on his friends, and stood up, replying, "If you wish me to maintain your views, then you will have sent me to Sorbonne for nothing!"

His father stopped in aghast, and pointed at him with a finger, his wrath visible in his shaking frame. "Get out, you ingrate," Olivier seethed, his blue eyes appearing nearly black in anger. "I have no need of a son who disrespects me."

The younger Enjolras gritted his teeth and put his blonde curls away from his eyes, even as his mother Elisabeth approached him in tears, and calmly eyed her husband who left to go to his room. "Aurelien, look at me," she beckoned him, her voice shaky, "this will not be easy, I know, but if you think that I have forsaken you, believe otherwise."

At this, Aurelien eyed his mother. "You need not bother with me. I can survive it," he replied, and tried to explain, but at the gaze of his mother Elisabeth, he quieted.

"I have secret lodgings not far from here. It's an apartment on the street bearing the name of one of the values of this household. Find Victor, and tell them it will be used by you under the name 'Firenze'," his mother instructed. "It will be yours, then. Beneath the floorboards is a box filled with enough money to last you for half a year. Whether you like it or not, I will send you food when I find out you are lacking."

Aurelien wanted to inquire of this arrangement more, but his eye twitched at the voice of his father asking for his mother to get him out. His mother clasped his hand, and said, "Remember our codes. I will find a way to reach you soon."

His face now stoic, he bowed in response, and vacated the house immediately.

So much for upholding respect, Enjolras thought as he limped his way through Rue Honore.

* * *

Eponine Thenardier kicked a stone as she walked listlessly, her stomach grumbling after not eating since last night. She looked above the skies, and let the sun warm her body, and for a moment, she is at peace in dreaming that she is breakfasting a hot meal with her dear Marius Pontmercy at La Musain. It is well that her mind can cast vivid images, and she could almost taste the slight saltiness of the soup of a pot-au-feu.

She imagined that she donned on a pretty blue dress, and that Marius would clasp her hand in earnest, and touch his lips upon her knuckles.

She hummed in contentment, and her reverie is broken when she heard the sound of a horse neighing in an effort to carry the full weight of the chaise and persons huddled inside as it travels in the street. Eponine blinked as her vision gave way to reality, and she sighed as she continued to look around for people she can pick pocket a meal or two from.

Her eyes land on a blonde schoolboy wearing a red coat, and she scoffs at his tenacity to don such an outfit that easily marked him out as a bourgeois. Nonetheless, a mark is a mark, and she moves away from the centre of the street to ascertain how best to approach this fool. Eponine assessed the environment, and noted that there were no men in uniform so far.

The boy was carrying books, and seemingly looking to purchase bread from a stall. What was better was that he appeared to be alone, and that there was a way to hide her thieving from him. She shrugged, and timed her walk to him as a couple arrived.

When she was near, her hand was already about to steal a pouch from the side of the schoolboy, but he turned so suddenly that she herself was taken aback and froze. His blue eyes peered at her questioningly before realising what was about to happen, and his lips moved to make a reply.

The movement of his mouth sparked Eponine into action, and she bolted immediately, grasping the tatters of her skirt. She ignored the knotting of her stomach in hunger, and eyed a quick escape by way of allowing another chaise be the distraction to the schoolboy. Once she felt the pads of her feet hurt, she stopped and panted. After recovering, she rested her back to a wall, and felt hot tears falling from her lids.

That schoolboy saw her, and in so much proximity! She gritted her teeth, and crossed her arms before opening her eyes to hear a child crying, and then being hurriedly hushed by his mother, who looked way too young to ever have a baby. She saw them share a piece of bread silently. Eponine turned away, her hunger still making her dizzy, and felt herself deflate in the situation.

Now, what was she ever going to say to her father later? She sighed once more, and steeled herself for another night of being taken advantage of by the Patron Minette. It was either that, or no rhino at all, and she can't let Azelma be the one to take the brunt of this nightmare again.

* * *

Ultime and Cosette Fauchelevent are solemn after hearing mass at Notre Dame, and they walked in silence as usual as they checked the various stalls selling bread and vegetables of varied kinds. The former picked up a carrot, and inspected it before handing a few louis d'ors to buy it. He then gave it to his daughter, who proceeded to put it in the basket she was carrying.

Cosette then saw a young man painting the church, and was going to approach him when her shoulder was patted by her father, who looked at her, and shook his head.

"It is an appealing venture, papa," she said, as she hid her hand as it became a fist, and pouted. "Surely, you would not mind if my mind can explore even on just a canvass?"

Ultime sighed, and nodded his approval for her to approach the artist, who sported unruly black curls and took a break from painting to drink from a bottle. Cosette stepped near him, and silently observed the image in front of her.

Two young urchins also neared the artist who continued to colour the canvass before one of them, a kid with fair hair, turned to Cosette and asked her, "Lady, is it possible to beg for a few sous from you?"

She looked at her father, who reached her in a few steps, and he gave the boys some coins. "There you go, young one," Ultime said. The blonde urchin gave his thanks, and soon left with his brown-haired friend.

As they were not yet far away, Cosette heard their conversation.

"See, Navet, that is how you do it!" the fair-haired one said as he raised his chin in pride.

"Yes, but that was because the lady's papa was there!" Navet countered, elbowing his friend. "You wouldn't even have mustered the courage to try to steal from the bourgeois if the old man wasn't there, Gavroche!"

Gavroche elbowed him back, and put out his tongue in childish retort. "Different methods for different people, idiot," he spat back.

Cosette rolled her eyes at this one, and they were lucky that her father didn't hear them as he was already busy buying one of the smaller paintings from the artist, whose name apparently was just "R".

Monsieur "R" was then greeted by two male friends, and that was when her father and she chose to leave the area to go home.

From afar, Gavroche and Navet suddenly ran upon seeing an old man in uniform nearing them. Fortunately, they weren't the focus of that particular officer, but the former urchin paled when he saw that a tall muscular man was eyeing the painter and some friends.

Gavroche put a palm to his face as he realised that it was this giant that the officer had targeted, and muttered, "Claquesous, you stupid carcajou."

* * *

Notes:

Rhino - French argot for money. | Carcajou - slang for glutton.


	2. Chapter 2: April 9, 1832

TW: rape, abuse, and social asphyxiation

A/N: Coded messages here are created by yours truly. If you're interested to know how to read it, message me.

* * *

Chapter 2: April 9, 1832

 _ **SEN1H8AS1Z!**_

Enjolras finished writing this short cipher on nine pieces of scratch paper, and he then put his quill down as he folded the letters before securely inserting it in the thick middle portion of a book offered to him by Victor, the elder keeper of the current lodgings that his mother provided for him. Having done that, he stood up from his desk, and opened his window to whistle the chorus of la marseillaise. Aurelien paused to wait for a reply, and it was a few seconds later when he heard the anthem repeated by a certain urchin's chirpier voice.

The light-haired student thus closed his window, and prepared to get bread from his trunk for his upcoming visitor, whose steps are heard by the stairs momentarily after. While preparing the tokens, a slight creak on the floor made Enjolras turn to the newcomer. He raised a brow when the gamin appeared to hesitate approaching him until he sighed and beckoned the boy to come closer.

"Is there a matter, Gavroche?" Enjolras inquired, handing the gamin the bread and book.

"Nothing, Chief," he replied, shrugging. "You usually send for Courfeyrac to call on me or Navet."

To this, Enjolras merely said, "He's occupied with another matter." He eyed Gavroche and then the package before continuing, "You know what to do. Eat well."

Gavroche nodded his gratitude and bit on the bread before turning to point to the wall, which was covered by an elaborate hand-drawn map of Paris, of the leader's room. "You did that, Chief?"

The fair-haired student shook his head. "Capital R." Seeing the surprised look of the gamin, he maintained a straight face and calmly explained, "Prouvaire was able to solicit it from the cask head."

Sensing the Chief's wariness, the urchin nodded, and left quietly, whistling the anthem once more.

 _It is impossible to save everyone,_ Enjolras thought as he lowered his lids momentarily. He stood straight once more, and rolling his sleeves, he eyed the map once more, dipped his quill in ink lightly, and went to mark certain streets and quays around Paris.

He will have to bring this later to the meeting, and obtain the suggestions of their coterie. Enjolras trusted that Courfeyrac and Feuilly would have some interesting news to share.

 _A contingency plan for the rest should also be ascertained_ , he further pondered, as scenarios filled his mind, and he attempted to cross each and every one, in accordance with the stratagems he has read from a certain scholar from the far East.

This prompted him to mark out a hole in the map, and he gritted his teeth as he assessed his earlier plan and discovered certain patterns that would serve as consequential losses to their group and other factions.

Perhaps, he should also ask Gavroche and their friends to verify shortcuts around the city.

 _And beneath, just to be sure_ , the Chief thought as his lips formed a hollow curve.

* * *

The sound of Thenardier's hand slapping his eldest daughter's face was heard throughout the Gorbeau Tenement, and it was followed by slurs and insults uttered in rapid argot. Amidst all this abuse, however, no sob came out from Eponine, who fell to the ground, even if her mother was shouting at her husband, "Stop it, you cinglé, or would you rather rid the Patron Minette of a useful bitch to look for uniforms?"

Thenardier glared at his wife, and attempted to hit her, as well, before being kneed in the groin. More expletives came out of him before he bellowed, "Montparnasse! Get yer ass here. You know what to do. Give me some louis d'ors after you finish with Azelma and then this hussy!"

Limping, he still found some strength to kick his daughter's side, who was just getting up to rest her back on the wall of the tenement. Eponine fell again, and eyed her mother, whose green eyes darkened in anger at the situation.

The Thenardiess spat at the feet of her husband, who was attempting to near her, and exclaimed, "Don't tempt me, connard. I's not afraid to use what I know to hurt ye."

His cheeks paled, and he gritted his teeth before turning to Eponine. "This is yer fault, dearie. Ye better stay'ere and guard this place. Claquesous is missing, and we'll be goin' around to search for that giant."

Eponine looked down, and nodded as she crossed her arms in front of her. She remained in this position until she heard her parents leave, and heard footsteps enter the room again. The gamine didn't need to check who the newcomers were as one was sobbing, and the other was whistling a ribald song.

Montparnasse dropped a knee in front of her, and put a hand to her chin to beckon her to glance at him.

"Your turn, 'Ponine," he said, his breath smelling strongly of beer. "I know you like it rough unlike 'Zelma here."

The gamine shrugged in response, and was pulled up by the young mercenary to her feet. He held her wrist tightly, and she gave her sister a concerned look.

Azelma, wiping her cheeks, shook her head, and the elder sister watched as certain strands of raven hair fell to the floor. It appeared that she made a visit to the docks earlier, then. Eponine closed her eyes, and let herself be led to a darker hallway by her old friend.

Against the wall and against his body, she acted accordingly, knowing that if she did so, it would be finished quick. A moan there, a touch of lips there, and a hand down there. She let him be harsh with her, and yet nothing about this crushed her.

Moments later, when it has ended, and Montparnasse took his leave, Eponine sat on the stairs, thinking about what destroyed her: realising that Marius was there just in his room slumbering next to them.

All that noise, and nothing woke him, and he did nothing.

Nothing still, and so even at this, Eponine shed no tear at all.

* * *

"Thank you, Navet," the Enjolras matriarch said before giving some louis d'ors and grinning at the young brown-haired urchin who delivered her package.

Elisabeth then closed the door of her home, and went to their library. She lighted a lamp on a desk, and sat down. The matriarch then opened the package, and laid the book down. Afterwhich, she took a small pen knife to nudge the middle part of the book to reveal a small parchment, which she procured, and then opened to read:

 **\- ?SEN1H8AS1Z! -**

Mentally decoding the cipher, the mother found her lips curling fondly at this message, which briefly told her that Aurelien was all right and busy with his friends. She then hurriedly wrote her response on the back of the paper, and returned it to where she first procured it from. Fixing the package once more, she opened the cabinet of her desk, and put the thing there for her to retrieve it come morrow morning.

The first thing she'll do as well later is to talk to Olivier once more of this situation, and if it is still not favourable, Elisabeth will find a way to meet with her old friend to monitor the events for her.

 _Hopefully, it will not be as dire as before_ , Elisabeth pondered, resting her chin upon her hands before closing her eyes, and taking a deep breath. _But then again, when has it not turned to be so here in Paris?_

She really wished her husband would be more forthcoming and agreeable, but then again Elisabeth cannot blame him when it nearly cost him his life before.

This is just the beginning, however, and she will not be surprised if the people have not yet realised that they are slowly being asphyxiated by everyone around them - lovers, families, swells, among others.

"Anything is plausible."

* * *

Note:

Cinglé - crazy or insane


	3. Chapter 3: April 9, 1832

A/N: I do know if anyone is reading this, but I'd like to thank **shadows-of-1832** nonetheless for reviewing this story. For that, I dedicate this chapter to you.

To the readers: I hope you find it worth your while, and if you catch a certain reference here, do tell. I dropped one. If any figure it out, you get a chance to give me one moment you would like to see in this AU.

Edit: I noticed some discrepancies with my earlier grammar. Please do forgive. I only write when I am on a coffee-driven semi-functional rush. I actually started this at 3:30 a.m., and stopped writing at 6 a.m. Right now, it's 6:15 p.m., and I haven't slept a wink, even as I have proofread it. No betas here. Nonetheless, I hope you keep tight for the eventual enjonine.

* * *

Chapter 3: April 9, 1832

Olivier Enjolras, at this very moment, can be found with lips curved extremely as he looked upon his wife, whose back was turned against him as they lay on their bed. Her dark tresses, mingled with grey hairs, cascaded behind her, and he tried his best not be allured to touch it when he felt the consternation of Elisabeth radiating from her from far away. His brows drew in, and he called her by her real name.

"If you think that is what will get me to notice you," Elisabeth started, still facing away from him, "you are quite right." At this, she turned, a soft smile on her visage, but Olivier sat straight abruptly when he saw that her eyes were stricken with tears.

He wiped these away with a finger, and proceeded to caress her cheeks because he knew this would comfort his wife.

Elisabeth sighed, closing her eyes before speaking. "You are still thinking in the short-term, Olivier, if it is within you to fancy that your son is just catching feathers."

Olivier's eye twitched at her statement, and he gruffly drew in a breath as he took away his hand from caressing her cheeks. It was a while before he found it in himself to gaze at her green eyes, for he knew that simply eyeing it lessens his resolve.

Finally, he responded, his hands turning into fists. "He does not know that l'émeuté can be greased by hands other than that which is tangible to him. You, of all people, know this by experience, especially with your friends from the days of Robespierre."

It was this misconstruction that made Elisabeth sit straight in pure vitriol, letting their bed make quite a noise when it bounced. She opposed him by saying, "I am not the mother of an ignoramus. I did not raise him to be 'unaware' of the stakeholders of the situation from days of old, and even of today." She raised a finger at him to further emphasise her point as she continued, "Aurelien became who he is right now for a reason."

Her husband gritted his teeth, feeling indignation emanating from him, but he cannot fully contradict this remark without condemning himself. But before he can say anything, Elisabeth continued scolding him with her voice, which was becoming more nasal by the second as it rose and rose in making commentary about his pride and how short-sighted he could be. He watched as her green eyes shone even in the dark, and he sighed. She was called the rose of versailles for a reason, as well.

Olivier slowly reached for her hand, and carefully let his fingers trace the lines, no matter how wrinkled it has become due to the passage of time. It is this that gradually made Elisabeth quiet and eye him warily. She let out a breath as he did earlier before putting her head below his chin and embraced him.

He let a tear fall from his lid as he said, his voice sounding feeble and drained, "Aurelien is the only one who survived you, ma chérie."

Elisabeth's hand tightened around his waist when he furthered by saying, "We cannot lose another child." He then slid his fingers through the strands of her hair and absentmindedly play with some of it. "But then again, we already have. Or at least, I have."

His wife put a finger to his lips as she responded, "You have not. Through me, you have not. But that is if you choose to accept that he will always be different. Anything is plausible."

Raising a brow at this before putting her finger away from him, he said, "You only say those words when you have a plan, Elisabeth." Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles, and eyed her. "You would not be my wife if you didn't."

A fond curl rested on Elisabeth's lips. "You would not be my husband if you agreed so easily."

* * *

Resolve is practicable. Discord is never non-mitigable. Compromises are achievable.

Gellert Courfeyrac desired these maxims for the peace of their Chief's mind. As it is in La Musain at the present, that does not seem to be the case. Courfeyrac watched Enjolras and Feuilly sitting and warily gazing at the other factions - those of students and laborers - squabble over drinks as they waited for their other members to arrive. He wondered how he should go about in interfering in order to set the mood for the meeting, and save time for his friend so that instead of lecturing them, they would finally act like the men that they were, and focus.

Before he could, however, the three taps on the back door of the cafe quieted everyone's bickering as people from various coteries made their entrance in the room for their conventicle. He sighed in relief, and found his two friends doing the same. He eyed Feuilly, who looked at him pointedly before slightly shrugging. Enjolras merely lowered his lids slightly at this welcome distraction, and took the papers that he brought with him from his bag, and put it on their table.

The newcomers, which included those from their group, sat hurriedly as the Chief rose on the table where Courfeyrac and Feuilly have been seated. Enjolras nodded his acknowledgment of Sivert Joly, Theo Combeferre, Sinclair Bahorel, and Jehan Prouvaire. Courfeyrac noted, however, that this courtesy was not extended to their friend Rui Grantaire, who has been on the other side of the cafe boldly drinking wine with Madame-or rather, he corrected himself mentally, Citoyenne soon-Hucheloup and her daughters, and have only thought of entering the room right before the Chief began the meeting. Courfeyrac frowned at this, but he wouldn't be able to do much about it at the moment, so he settled for silence and eyed Grantaire with a smile to encourage him. His friend nodded, and hurried to sit to another table with Jehan.

Nonetheless, anyone who knew the Chief would be familiar of that stoic personality of his, but it is also quite popular amongst their factions that he could be quite consternated with people who are not rigorous with their causes. It is for this reason that when Enjolras finally spoke, his voice overwhelmed the din.

"Citoyens, the republic we dream of will thank you if we are easily in agreement when it comes to the urgency of our vision, and we are two months or less away from realising this great ambition," he started, letting his eyes pan across the room. Satisfied at seeing how everyone was listening, he nodded to Courfeyrac, who eagerly smoothed out the larger parchment that he brought with him, and revealed the map of Paris that was within it. "I have here in this layout strategised for where we could best suit and craft ourselves barricades in order to counter the force of the military. Your suggestions and verifications of it are welcome." Enjolras then asked Courfeyrac and Bahorel to pin the map for the rest of the group to scrutinise.

A hubbub of discourse on the practicalities of the locations chosen soon gave rise in the room. Feuilly walked up to Enjolras as he finished explaining the merits of some streets that were marked, what accoutrements were needed more, and inquired the leader of Marché Bastille on their recommendations.

"Arthur, how is it with the guilds?" Enjolras asked, rolling his sleeves.

"It is as usual, and the figures are about 10-20 able-bodied men," Feuilly responded, giving him a note. "Those are the list of the names who have agreed to volunteer for the revolution. Across that column signify from which they come from."

The Chief nodded and gave his thanks, his fair hair falling in front of his eyes, and he swatted it away with his hand before putting the list on the pocket of his journal. "The number is all right, but we will need more in the coming weeks." He patted Feuilly's shoulder. "All the same - thank you."

"For France, Chief," he responded before heading to the other side of the room to talk with Combeferre on how best to approach the women factions so he could bring validated news to Enjolras in the next conventicle.

It was at this point that Enjolras was given a few seconds to breathe before he is tapped on the shoulder while he was checking his journal for his notes on the previous meeting. He looked behind him to see Gavroche with the book he gave earlier. Enjolras reached from his pocket to give the gamin some sous and offer the child bread from the table.

Gavroche took it before responding, "Chief, I will go back to you again on that other thing you asked me from as the belly of the Lady is disturbed at the moment."

Seeing the raised brow of Enjolras, he explained, "Too many people there right now. Tomorrow, it'll be freer."

Realisation dawning, the Chief nodded and replied his gratitude. Gavroche saluted to him before making his way to prank Courfeyrac by pulling the tails of his coat. The curly-haired brunette fell to the floor due to this, and was about to punch the cause when he saw it was the child, and laughed at him. Bahorel, who was speaking with Courfeyrac previously, guffawed at this, and bumped his fist with Gavroche.

Enjolras, eyeing this, hid a fond curl forming on his lips over his journal, and shook his head.

This detail, in particular, was not missed by Grantaire who silently drank what must have been his seventh bottle that night. He felt his face grow incarnadine at it, and ached to have it imprinted on parchment. "Fine statue," he muttered to himself, as his hands drew random outlines on the top of the table he was resting on.

"Capital R," Prouvaire called, patting his shoulder consolingly. "Marble is hard to break. You know how he is."

Grantaire glared at him, putting his friend's hand away from his shoulder. "I am aware," he started to retort, but at seeing Jehan's downcast eyes, he just shook his head. "But people forget that Olympus is but a mountain to climb."

Prouvaire refused to look at him, and angled himself away from Grantaire, but not too entirely. Jehan pursed his lips and replied, "Perhaps, but it does not mean that Apollo is the only-"

He wasn't able to finish his sentence as the door the backroom of the cafe opened to admit a limping and bloodied Bossuet.

"L'Aigle!" Bahorel exclaimed as he ran to carry and help the ailing bald man come sit at a chair. Bossuet's arm sleeve was slashed through, and cuts on his face and upper limbs were bloodied.

Combeferre sprang to attend to their friend, but Joly stopped him to say, "Combeferre, you've just had your fill of dealing with a lot of them today. My turn. You need to rest."

He gazed at Enjolras, who pointedly looked at him, and he let Joly go, but followed him to Bossuet, nonetheless.

"What happened to you?" Combeferre asked worriedly, his brows scrunching together, while Joly took the equipments he needed from his bag.

"Got followed 'round Jardin du Luxembourg," Bossuet responded, as Joly silently treated him around his face and Bahorel kept him still. "I suspect it came from the Legion, but who knows? It could be any enemy we've made across the years."

At this, Joly clucked his tongue, and said, "You'd best avoid being muddled, then. You can't face 'Chetta like this."

Bossuet shrugged, and turned to Enjolras, "Chief, we're in big trouble."

"Anything is plausible in this fight," Enjolras responded, and proceeded to look around the room. "It makes it harder to prognosticate what else may come, but it is exactly for that reason that we thrive."

The other factions assented to this with a loud "Vive la France!"

The members of Les Amis looked upon each other, and nodded before repeating the words louder with the rest of the people in the room.

"Vive la France! Vive la France! Vive la France!"

* * *

Note:

Émeute - revolution, insurrection, rebellion, etc.


	4. Chapter 4: April 10, 1832

A/N: This chapter did not go the way I planned it _at all,_ but I hope you find it interesting, nonetheless. I beseech you all be open-minded to the moments in this story. This chapter is dedicated to EnjolrasLovedEponine for the awesome review.

* * *

Chapter 4: April 10, 1832

Musichetta slapped him quite fiercely that his right cheek stung and reddened visibly. Joly, who was beside her and clutching her other gloved hand, found himself twitching in response.

Bossuet groaned in pain and winced before saying, "'Chetta, I'm so sorry. Joly already told you. It really wasn't-"

Another slap, this time on his left cheek. Bossuet shut his eyes before rubbing his cheeks with his hands. He was going to explain himself once more until he felt her head rest upon his left shoulder. He immediately clasped her waist to bring her closer to him, and rested the side of his face near her brown curls. He also took Joly's hand and held it when the young doctor walked to him.

"I'm really sorry," Bossuet repeated, feeling Musichetta take a deep breath before raising her head and eyeing him solemnly with her grey eyes.

He raised a finger to caress her cheek as she spoke, "I don't easily forgive, but you can do something about it. For me and Joly."

His brow raised in silent inquiry, and Musichetta nodded before he pressed his lips upon her, and captured her mouth more when a moan released from her. He felt a kiss happen upon the back of his neck, and took Joly's hand to his waist and grasped it firmly.

Musichetta started kissing his neck before taking his hand to grip her bottom and letting him squeeze it. Bossuet sighed in contentment and then turned back slightly to take Joly's cravat to make him go nearer and meet his lips soundly. He opened his mouth and let his tongue lightly touch the young doctor's, and felt him hold on his sleeve tightly when he did this.

He held the side of Joly's face as he continued kissing him while his other hand worked on gently pressing the breasts of Musichetta, who was lightly teasing his shaft before holding it entirely. Bossuet felt himself tremble slightly at this, and let Joly go away so the young doctor could take off his own clothes.

Bossuet peppered her neck with light kisses and lifted the folds of her skirt and petticoat to her waist before gently easing a finger to draw circles on her sweet spot. He looked at Musichetta and saw her grey eyes grow darker as she moaned, "Touch me, please."

This was enough for him to prod some of the hairs aside below before he inserted one inside her vagina, and felt how wet she was. He put one more as her eyes shut and her head fell back in ecstasy as he curled his fingers and drew it in and out of her repeatedly. Feeling her nearing climax, he sped up his ministrations, and in spite of his growing erection, he managed to steel himself from releasing especially since he was still wearing clothes, and found it more rewarding when Musichetta screamed as she came to the height of her pleasure.

At this, Joly came to hold Musichetta to deter her fall, and gently fondled her breasts as she calmed down. Bossuet took his trousers off and sighed as his cock felt freer before stroking it. He let Joly help her carefully remove her garments, and gestured with his other hand to point them to their bed, which was on the other side of their room.

They let Musichetta lay in the middle of the mattress, and a fond smile rested on her lips as she purred, "Come to me, mes chers."

Bossuet gritted his teeth a bit when he set himself to his side upon the bed, and Joly was about to put his head down between Musichetta's legs, but stopped to look worryingly over their friend.

"L'Aigle, you don't need to continue. You can rest," he advised.

Musichetta cupped the side of Bossuet's face to tell him, "Please don't strain yourself too much."

He shook his head, and turned instead to kiss her palm. Musichetta shrugged at his insistence as Joly said, "As you wish. But if at any point, 'Chetta and I sense your ailing, we _will_ force you to take a nap." Bossuet nodded his assent silently.

Musichetta then caressed his glabrous head and sighed appreciatively when he proceeded to tease her nipples. She felt herself twitch when Joly's lips moved to satisfy the folds of her vulva. She opened her legs wider and let him continue pleasuring her before she got impatient and murmured, "I want you inside, please."

Bossuet ceased playing Musichetta's breasts to go to Joly and put his lips on the tip of the young doctor's prick. Lightly, he wet it with his tongue before stroking it until it became more erect and saw Joly's face becoming incarnadine at feeling himself grow larger. Bossuet released his cock, and motioned for him to attend to their woman.

Joly swallowed and swatted the hair that stuck to his sweaty face, and positioned himself between her legs before pushing himself forward and inside her wet walls. They both moaned at the impact. Bossuet, at this point, have already gone behind Musichetta and continued his previous fondling of her already erect nipples before squeezing it. He waited until they were both panting as they pursued fornicating to move sideways so he could stroke himself to time his release with theirs.

It was a few moments later when they all sighed together.

Musichetta clasped both of their hands and muttered, "I dislike it so much that you guys are dedicated to that revolution of yours because what would happen then if I lost you two when it fails?"

Bossuet grasped her waist and drew circles on her stomach. "Two years ago, the revolution succeeded. In spite of my luck, I think this one would, too."

"There's a higher chance, 'Chetta," said Joly, who put a light kiss on her shoulder, "especially since we're ensuring we get more support from the people."

The dark-haired woman sighed before responding, " _I know_. I just can't help but worry over you two. _Especially you._ " She pinched Bossuet's nose to emphasise her point.

At this, a hearty laugh released itself from Bossuet, and the two soon found themselves chuckling lightly before giggling loudly as its contagiousness drew warmth in their chests and tickled their stomachs.

When at last their sniggering ceased, Joly felt tears dripping from his eyelids as he whispered, "Just so you know, I may have fought in Marseilles, but I am still afraid."

Closing her eyes, Musichetta slid her fingers in his brown hair and dropped a kiss on it. "Maybe your happiness can convince the military to _not_ fight," she feebly suggested, smiling even as she feel her eyes tearing up.

"Of course, they would. Who are we kidding here?" Bossuet remarked gently before clasping the young doctor's elbow. " _Of course_ , they would, Sivert. Who else can make the whole room cringe with your attention to the minutiae of all the horrors of typhus? Or of the bacteria in everyday accoutrements?"

Joly found his lips forming a curl before quipping, "And at _that_ , we all need to bathe shortly."

His lovers groaned at this, and he responded, "You reminded me!"

* * *

Eponine did not realise that it was already dawn until she heard the door next to their room crack open, and found her eyes focusing on her still slumbering sister. She had been sitting on the floor and staring at their wall, counting the numerous lines across it as she pondered on how long had Marius actually been seeing some other better woman. It's not as if it's secret, having been there at his quarters and perceiving several rolled parchments beside his bed.

Even at that, Eponine still stubbornly persisted in her belief that it was all just nothing, and Marius was hers, and his letters were meant for her to be read. She _can,_ after all.

She even kept one of those that littered on the floor when he asked her help to tidy the space. A fond curl even found itself on her lips when she read one of the lines that were written:

 ** _True love is plunged in despair or rapture by a lost glove or by a found handkerchief; but it needs eternity for all its devotion and its hopes. It is composed of both the infinitely great and the infinitely small._**

 ** _If you are stone, be magnetic; if a plant, be sensitive; but if you are human be love._**

She still has it, and the letter warms her cheeks every time she remembers the words that have cemented the fantasies in her dreams further. She closed her eyes, thinking very hard to visualise it again in her head - _a pretty blue dress, pot-au-feu on the table, kisses on knuckles, and his kind, dark eyes_.

Once more, the door in the other room creaked, and her musings ceased abruptly, disturbed by it. Eponine huffed, annoyed, and stood, carefully walking over Azelma so as not to wake her before coming over to see what was the matter with Marius.

She went in the narrow hallway, and leaned on the door of his quarter before greeting him with a jest, "M'sieur, your tinkering has rather awoken me. Care to be quieter next time?"

The dark-haired schoolboy turned to her abruptly, and ruefully smiled, as he fixed the parchments scattered on the floor next to a box filled with pistols. "Sorry, 'Ponine," he apologised, "I'll make sure to remember it. I was just tending to my letters."

Her cheeks warmed at his attention, but she shrugged it away, and asked him, "You need help?"

Marius was pensive for a moment, but he shook his head. "I can manage this time," he replied, turning to close the box and putting the parchments in order before he took a long, crisp one and smoothed it on the floor.

Eponine wanted to press him more about the pistols, but it seemed that he didn't want to talk about it. She shrugged at this, and moved to leave his quarter before saying, "Well, m'sieur, if you have ever need of me, you know I'm just 'round."

Marius did not answer her, both in action and in words, too busy with writing on the parchment in front of him. Eponine found herself shrugging once more, if only to stop the pain starting to root within her chest further. A somber curve rested on her lips as she walked out, and she pondered whether his lack of a response was due in part to that woman, whoever she was.

She huffed once more, and ran down the stairs to leave the tenement. She might as well look for Claquesous somewhere. Knowing the Patron Minette, they would have focused around these streets first, so sweeping through it would be a fool's doing. She decided on looking around the cathedral, seeing as a lot of their people walk amongst the churchgoers there. That, and it might be a more fortuitous place to be in, as it covers the belly of the Lady.

Perhaps all this can numb her from deeply feeling the rejection of her Marius.

 _Perhaps_ , she thought, walking silently amongst the crowd, and feeling nothing once more.

* * *

"Once, I fashioned myself into the comeliness of a woman," an elder, deeper voice whispered, "a pregnant one at that, so that I could find a way out of this country, and into the arms of another in order to help them shake their stars into birth. Quite a story to tell, yes?"

Enjolras found himself blinking at this tale before nodding. He swallowed, and then replied, "Rather creative, although I am unsure if I can be as bold as you in your efforts, Lafayette."

The old man chuckled at this before remarking, "Your countenance and steadfastness, however, brings to my mind a former associate. _Long dead_. But that is not why we are here in this shrine."

"I know you supported Louis-Philippe once, but he is no longer the future," Enjolras asserted in a whisper, keeping his voice even while making sure it is not so loud for others to overhear. They are not in the safest of locations, after all, especially in this cathedral. But it is the one of the few places where not a lot would question privacy, especially when it is under the guise of prayers.

"It is the republic that is the future," he continued, uncrossing his fingers to take a small piece of parchment to hand to Lafayette, who quickly took it and put it within his hands.

"Quia nominor Leo," the elder responded, closing his eyes.

Enjolras nodded to this before standing up and promptly leaving the cathedral. On his way out, he looked around to search for a certain red-headed poet. Finding him by a lamp post, he walked towards Jehan and greeted him by patting his shoulder.

Prouvaire turned to him, and smiled before handing him a painting featuring ships on the port of Calais. "You'll want to knife the back before you can get the letters from the women factions and a certain key," the red-haired amicably instructed.

A fond curl found itself on the Chief as he gave his gratitude. "Thank you, Jehan," he replied, "Please tell Feuilly and Capital R to continue their work with the Citoyennes."

Jehan smiled before clasping his friend's shoulder and walking to cross the other side of the Notre Dame.

Enjolras then started to check if there are chaises nearby, since he was still rather worn out from their conventicle the evening before, and walking all the way to Rue Honore could drain his energy. Besides, he would be able to feel the back of the painting for its contents more securely.

Seeing none that were available, however, he proceeded to walk until someone knocked him to his side, and he found himself on the floor. Feeling his lids close, he felt his teeth grit as his body tingled with pain. Getting up proved to be quite a challenge when above him lay a rather startled woman whose features were quite strikingly familiar.

His brows stitched in inquiry before he grasped her shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked, not understanding this woman's shocked face until it registered in his mind why exactly was it that her visage was flitting in his memory.

"You-!" he began to exclaim, but before he could even finish, the gamine stood up and ran away quickly.

Sighing, he gathered his belongings, and was rather glad that the painting remained. His pouch, though, _that_ he cannot the hold to the same observation. He palmed the side of his trousers, but did not feel the familiar weight of it.

Before a curse could find itself forming on his lips, he gritted his teeth. _It was only a few sous, anyway,_ he thought forlornly. _I will have to walk home, nonetheless._

He took a deep breath, and decided to choose another route to find his way home. It was a good thing Victor told him of that particular direction before he left. He will have to talk with him again, though, and ask about his mother.

His mother has surprisingly shown how wider her knowledge was of this city, and it would be wise to consult her more. Although it does perplex him how her mother arrived with the kind of solutions she has posed.

 _Mother, what are you hiding?_ he pondered grimly, as he turned at a cafe, and continued straight to the main street once more. _Does his father even know?_

* * *

Note:

The excerpt from the letter Eponine reads is really the one written by Marius to Cosette.

Edit: The occurrence where Lafayette cross-dresses is legit. Google and check it out. ;)


	5. Chapter 5: April 11, 1832

A/N: It was hard to write when I felt unsure if anyone was reading it. But someone in my tumblr at poeticbibliophile commented that they loved it so far, and for that I dedicate this chapter to courageandbravery. I hope you continually find it invigorating. Thank you.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: April 11, 1832**

It starts in feverish warmth, rapid heartbeats, and then ‒ _silence_.

Silence that wreaked havoc in the calmest of minds. Silence that woke one beyond the grave. Silence that willed laughter into fresh and glorious tears.

But something did not feel right.

In experiencing all these sensations, his dark eyes focused, and in his horror, his breath stolen at what he perceived ‒ pavements of silver becoming scarlet rivers, lifeless bodies turned towards the sun, tables downward and some broken into splinters.

Jehan Prouvaire found himself shouting into consciousness. His cheeks wet with tears, he put his palms on his face and took long, deep breaths.

 _I must warn him_ , he thought, as he stood, shaking.

His dark curls starkly contrasted with the scene Jehan found him in the street by Notre Dame. Grantaire was sitting, his hands lazily raising his brush on a canvas, which showed certain little blue flowers with a yellow centre. He frowned further when he saw that below his stool were a number of empty green flasks.

"Rui, why is this your subject?" the young poet said, putting a hand on his shoulder in greeting.

"Don't call me that," Grantaire replied, glaring at him. "If ever I'm anything to you, it's _Capital R._ "

Jehan sighed, looking down. "You only say that because he once found it sardonic."

Grantaire swatted his hand away irritatedly, gritting his teeth at this slight. "What would you with me, Euripides?"

The red-haired poet crossed his arms at this, and replied, "You are mistaken. I prefer happier tales than his tragic ones."

"Well, by the way you arrived, one could have not erred at describing your fancies, and perceiving somber tales," Grantaire remarked, his brow raised. Then putting his brush down in order to fetch another bottle, he eyed Prouvaire, noticing how disturbed he appeared. Sighing, he asked, "What is it that you came here for, anyway?"

At this, Prouvaire's hands balled into fists as he said, "I had a dream that the revolution would fail. That there was blood everywhere. And that this would not be like before."

"Hardly surprising," Grantaire answered, shrugging before downing his flask. Upon noticing the weary sigh that the red-haired poet gave, he explained. "This is a different world, Orpheus, but understand that I mean no folly when I said that it doesn't shock me."

"You expect Enjolras to fail then?" Jehan pointedly replied.

It is this that spurred Grantaire to stand and take Jehan's sleeves in anger. "Make _no_ mistake," he said. "I believe in him, but not in this revolution."

Jehan shook himself free before looking above and closing his eyes. "Yes, but you would not believe in me."

"Get away from me," Grantaire calmly seethed, sitting down and continuing his hazy portrayal of the still life. "I won't bed you just for that. Away with you."

Prouvaire opened his eyes, and turned away, saying, "I have always done differently."

* * *

"Cadet Rouselle ne mourra pas, cadet rouselle ne mourra pas," Cosette lightly sang to herself, treading slowly around the garden of their home in Rue Plumet. "Car, avant de sauter le pas ‒ car, avant de sauter le pas, on dit qu'il apprend l'orthographe, pour fair' lui-mêm' son épitaphe."

A fond curl found its way to her lips when she perceived a rolled parchment hidden amongst the vines, and she walked towards it before retrieving it. "Ah! Ah! Ah! Oui, vraiment ‒ Cadet Rouselle est bon enfant!" she continued, tucking the letter in her sleeves when she heard her father call her name.

Feeling her heart beat rapidly and cheeks grow warm, she willed it to cool, and only turned when she heard the footsteps of her father near her.

"Cosette?" Ultime Fauchelevent eyed his daughter with a raised brow. "You're rather early in the garden?"

"I was minding the vines, father," she remarked in haste. "They're growing quite faster that I worried over it."

Another brow raised from Ultime, but he relented, and replied, "Well, Toussaint can assist me later. No need to trouble yourself over it."

He patted her head before remarking, "Now, hurry inside. I think she made pudding for you."

This brought a fond curl to his daughter's face, and she immediately went inside. Ultime smiled at this, shaking his head, and then observed the vines, which had indeed grown. He looked around further in the garden, and stopped when he noticed that under a rock, there was a quaint missive resting.

He walked towards it, perturbed, until he took the letter and opened it to read:

 _ **1815J - 1768A09H30Z!**_

Ultime pocketed the note immediately, and willed himself to be calm. Checking the whole of the garden and finding no other intrusions, he quickly went inside to join Cosette and Toussaint for breakfast.

* * *

"Please, no, monsieur!" a certain brunette yelled as a man of about forty years neared her.

" _No?_ Are you silly?" he exclaimed, laughing as he continued taunting the young woman. "Open yourself before me! Such is the conduct of a lovely lady, am I not right?"

The brunette shook her head, shaking and crossing her arms, even as the man pursued her until she was up against a wall. "Now, now, you'll get it, I tell you," he muttered, suddenly breaking her hold on herself and splitting her dress from the waist so that her chest was revealed to him. He grabbed and squeezed it amidst her cries, and it annoyed him greatly that he slapped her loudly.

This silenced the young woman, and she froze as he continued his advances, licking her breasts and readying to remove his trousers before her. Having succeeded, the pimp prodded her legs, and the brunette found no more strength to oppose him as he lifted her skirts, and put his fingers at her entrance.

It was when he was moving his prick within her that a hand placed itself on his dark hair, and he was then forcibly removed from the young woman to meet the pavements.

Eponine kicked him continuously until he was sputtering and begging for her to stop. The gamine laughed at this out of scorn, and grabbed him by his cravat, before saying, "You finally know what it meant to say no?"

The man nodded, pressing his aching sides with a hand, but when he focused looking at her green eyes, she punched him again, and he blacked out.

"I think not," she seethed.

Eponine searched his pockets and grabbed a smaller satchel containing a handful of louis d'ors and sous. She took this, and then approached the young woman, who was sobbing.

"Here's half," the elder gamine said, giving coins to the brunette, whose flow of tears gradually stilled.

"Thank you," she replied, taking a deep breath.

Eponine nodded, removing the bind of her shawl and flattening it out before putting her hands in the middle and forcedly cleaving the cloth into two. She then wrapped it around the younger girl before instructing her, "Be strong."

They stood together, and Eponine fixed her shawl and was about to leave when the brunette tapped her shoulder.

"If ever I can repay your help, I'm just around here, and I'll find a way to steal food for you," the young woman replied. "My name is Aveline Lescaut."

Once more, Eponine nodded, and answered, "No need, Aveline. Just make sure no more men hurt you the way this carcajou was about to. I am Eponine Thenardier."

Recognising the surname, Aveline gasped before covering her mouth, and the elder gamine shook her head. "There is no glory in that name. Don't think of it too highly."

Aveline raised a brow before shrugging. "Nonetheless, I thank you," she said, curtseying.

It was this gesture that made Eponine's lips curve. "You did not come from the below."

The brunette shook her head, and replied, "I ran away. But that is a story for another time when we meet again, I think."

Eponine patted her shoulder, and before she departed, she said, "We will."

* * *

The triumvirate of Les Amis found themselves in deep discussion about the attack on L'Aigle de Mieux in the apartment Courfeyrac stayed in at Rue de la Grande-Truanderie.

Adjusting the glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose, Combeferre put a fist on his cheek as he remarked, "It is an eccentric occurrence to have transpired, but nothing that is not to be expected."

Enjolras's lips curved further as he pondered on this heavily. "Nonetheless, I find it troubling that Bahorel has not yet given us news on this. He is usually able to gather a thing or two for us to extrapolate into existence."

Ceasing his steps, Courfeyrac approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder before gently replying, "Give him one more day. Sinclair may be having a harder time than usual."

Sighing, Enjolras opened his journal to their previous meeting with the coteries. "Let us attend to another matter then."

"We'll find something soon," Combeferre assured him. "I find your outline of the map very thorough. What we'll now need to take into consideration is its adaptability and the welfare of the people manning it."

"That is prudent," Enjolras replied, as he noted it down on a clean page. "What do you suggest, then, Theo? Rationing like soldiers?"

Combeferre nodded. "We must place these food rations evenly in every barricade, so that our energies are easily replenished during breaks," he answered.

"You expect it will be a long fight, then," Courfeyrac interjected, a curl on his lips, as he sat across him.

Both of his friends nodded. Combeferre further suggested, "There's a likely possibility that Joly and I might be separated, if other contingents need our specialty in treating their wounded, if ever."

Enjolras eyed him, and said, "We will need to put Bossuet with him, if it comes to that. I thought Marché Bastille has Lucien Renault?"

"Joly is more practised," Combeferre replied, adjusting his glasses once more.

It is this demeanour that Enjolras raised a brow at. "You don't mean to squabble with Joly, then?"

"There never was or is any argument with Joly," Combeferre answered diplomatically. "He is rather a competitive friend, that is all. That is why Lucien might need his help more."

Enjolras nodded, looking to Courfeyrac, who had a pensive expression directed towards him. "What is it?" the fair-haired leader inquired.

"You did not acknowledge Capital R last time?" he innocently asked in response.

Enjolras tried hard not to, but nonetheless he felt his face become cold in demeanour. Combeferre wearily gazed at Courfeyrac, whose eyes widened and put his hands up in mock defense. "What?"

"I detest his inattention during our conventicles. It appears that we are folly to him. I attribute this to the wine that has gone into his head. That is not the kind of spirit we are all fostering here," Enjolras explained, his tone becoming acrid.

"Sorry," Courfeyrac dejectedly said as Combeferre sighed.

He irritatedly replied, "No matter, let us get back to discussing the barricades."

Combeferre waited for Enjolras to calm further before he surmised, "Perhaps, we can just ration the medicine supplies according to the number of people per barricade, of course. That way, going about is not a trouble unless necessary."

Enjolras nodded, not yet ready to speak, as he once more jotted this suggestion in his journal.

"Marion de Maupassant of Les Iris de Force is eager as well to meet with the rest of our contingent for agreements, as well," Combeferre remarked, his eyes turning to the window.

"We can have them in our upcoming conventicle, as Liberté de Marianne and Les Féminines Ferveurs have written in their recent missives that they wish to be included," Enjolras replied, scribing this recent development into his journal once more. Turning to Courfeyrac, he said, "I trust that you can level the Rosseau-minded Marché Bastille on this matter."

Courfeyrac nodded, and surmised, "It will be fine. Jean-Luc Marin from L'œuvre de l'Homme has corresponded with me and hopes for a simulation for the barricades, when it is opportune."

"We'll have to see if everyone is amenable to that," Combeferre replied. "Some have quite the experience already, however, so they might not need it, but it is them we will have to ask to lead it."

"Perhaps, we can soon bring up if May for this simulation is fortuitous," Enjolras interjected. "We have a week free before our respective examinations."

"I shall write to Jean-Luc, if they are fine with that," Courfeyrac said. "I'll also have Gavroche go around for the other factions, and have him tell them of the meeting on April 13 at Corinthe."

Enjolras nodded, more at ease this time. "I'll have to update our annex for our group's ciphers and the layout for the barricades, then." He wrote this before closing his journal and primly gathering all his belongings.

"Thank you for today, Gellert," Enjolras said, patting his shoulder. "I am sorry I was short with you earlier."

A fond curl found its way upon Courfeyrac's face as he regarded him with a nod. "It's all good, Chief."

"We shall take our leave in peace, then," Combeferre replied amicably as they departed the household.

* * *

Note: The song Cosette sings is called "Cadet Rouselle", which is now used as a children's rhyming song of some sort. It was made by Gaspard de Chenu in 1792 to satirise this one bailiff and revolutionary who was rather weird, and the French being French, well, what better way to spite him? Victor Hugo even used this song to mock Robespierre for having such long, winded speeches. It's a rather witty song, if you ask me, when used in that context.


	6. Chapter 6: April 12, 1832

A/N: I was able to finish this chapter earlier this week, but the thunderstorm caused my net to die. I'm back, though, so cheers.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: April 12, 1832**

"How goes it with you?" Azelma greeted as she entered the cell, carrying a small basket with her.

Claquesous gestured for her to sit, a fist on his cheek as he shrugged. "The days fare better than the evenings," he answered lazily in argot.

Fixing her blue skirt behind her, the young gamine sat, and handed him the bread from her basket as she replied back in the same patois, "Strange for ye to say, when ye know how our kind thrive."

Scratching his wizened, frazzled face, the giant was about to make another quip when the guard above them shouted, "Speak in proper French! And louder!"

Curling a finger over a dark strand of her shortened hair, Azelma rolled her eyes at that reminder before sweetly responding, "We won't take a moment longer, monsieur."

"We aren't lovers, don't ye worry!" Claquesous taunted the guard, who lifted his chin higher as his beard twitched yet spoke nothing. "Pussy," the giant muttered, smirking as Azema chuckled a little.

The guard looked down immediately and affronted, loudly inquired, "What did you say?"

"Hussy! I said 'hussy' to this lass 'ere," the giant responded sarcastically, not at all hiding the derision in his tone. Then nodding to Azelma, he said, "Ye should go now."

The younger Thenardier shrugged, standing up. "I hope the night fares better for ye here, old man."

"Perhaps later will be kinder," Claquesous replied nonchalantly as he took a bite off the bread.

* * *

"Hand me the rope, 'Parnasse," Eponine chided, as she lifted the tatters of her skirt before tying it in the middle.

The young assassin whistled at seeing her legs before giving her the item. "Perhaps, we can have a round later, eh, 'Ponine?" he asked, a wolfish curl on his lips.

Glaring at him, Eponine said nothing, and turned instead to face the gates of La Force. She put a hand on one of its railings before placing her foot a few inches below as she climbed over quickly. Seeing no guard patrolling at the moment, she immediately ran to the side of a wall. Montparnasse followed her wordlessly.

Picking up a large rock, she tied it with the end of her rope and gave it to her accomplice, who swung it over their heads until it reached the roof. When she felt that it was secure enough after a few tugs, she scaled the wall in a moderate pace, careful not to fall.

Reaching the roof, Eponine glanced down and motioned for him to climb up. A few moments later, Montparnasse hugged her from behind as she was opening a door to the inside of La Force. She swatted his hands away when he remarked, "Maybe I can fuck you here? It'd be such a thrill."

"Quiet," the gamine harshly whispered, taking care to check the hall for any guard. It appeared that only one was on watch tonight, and she eyed Montparnasse pointedly.

"That one's ready to fall asleep, so my job will be easier," the young mercenary answered, taking out a lingre from his coat pocket.

"You _don't_ need to kill him," Eponine warned, searching for Claquesous's cell and finding it marked with a lousily tied black cravat by the end of the hall. Raising a brow at how this was not removed by the guards at La Force, she thought how they were too lax in the evening.

"You bore me, 'Ponine," Montparnasse replied, tiptoeing towards the back of the snoring man before putting a hand over his mouth and wordlessly slicing his neck. The mercenary proceeded to check for money in his pants, and finding some, Montparnasse whistled low before pocketing it.

Shaking her head, Eponine swiftly picked the lock in Claquesous's cell, and called on him. The giant smirked at seeing her as he went out. "I had thought yer sister'd be the one to get me out of 'ere," he remarked, nodding to Montparnasse who was cleaning the blood on his knife with a piece of cloth.

"She doesn't want to deal with 'Parnasse," the gamine replied vaguely, gesturing to a door in the middle of the hall. "Come on, we need to go before we get caught. It took us quite a bit to find you."

"Inspector Javert was keen on marking me here," Claquesous said, snorting as they retraced Eponine's earlier route.

"For what? Recidivism?" Montparnasse inquired, climbing down the gates. "We'd best not be caught, then. It's here, or prison camp. Escaping there is harder." Both of his companions gave no response as they hurried outside.

Once they were out of La Force, they all nodded to each other before walking their own paths away from the prison. The two went off to the sewers to regroup with the other members of the Patron-Minette while the gamine hurried to the Gorbeau tenement hoping to see a certain monsieur le baron.

* * *

A fond curl rested on Bahorel's lips as he regarded the visage of a blonde-haired grisette who returned his smile as she walked towards him. The wind blew gently in Jardin du Luxembourg, and the woman held the folds of her white dress with a hand as she fondly murmured, "Sinclair."

"Citoyenne Da Silva, how kind of you to come," Bahorel said, taking her gloved hand and kissing it in warm greeting.

"You know you don't need to be so formal with me, Sinclair," the woman replied, her brown eyes lilting with joy as he put his hands on her waist.

"Well, it matters when you always want to be 'respectable' all the time, Lucille," the dark-haired schoolboy teased, pulling her close for a kiss.

Sighing at this gesture, Lucille put her arms around his neck and parted her lips to welcome him more fully in her mouth. Bahorel moaned at her boldness and drew her nearer, feeling sweat pinprick behind his neck as they progressed. For a second, the schoolboy desired to do more unspeakable things, but he owed her the decency to be more discrete, so he pulled back gradually, and kissed her forehead to end their amorous greeting.

Grasping her hand, he led her to one of the benches across the fountain before sitting.

"How has it been so far in Liberté de la Marianne?" Bahorel inquired, still holding her hand.

Pursing her lips in disgust, Lucille replied, "Getting grisettes together is no matter, but maintaining our numbers in the long run is becoming a headache. It's understandable, really, given the expectations of society and people around, but I wish it weren't so troublesome to be active in the matters of the future."

Bahorel sighed, understanding the dilemma all too well. "I hope it doesn't come to the point when your contingent is forced to join with another."

"You think?" Da Silva asked, eyeing him curiously before turning to look at the fountain in front of them. "I happen to think differently. I don't think it'd be so bad. It would make things easier for me to handle. I only hope it isn't the Les Iris de Force that we get to be assimilated into. Too many 'elders' there."

Laughing at this conjecture, Bahorel replied, "Well, I was trying not to be too forward, but there you are."

Afar, however, upon seeing the familiar curly redhead of Arthur Feuilly whose arm was linked with a certain Marion de Maupassant of the aforementioned women faction, he amicably waved them over to their location.

"I fear the weather will become more swelteringly hot come next month," the dark-haired lady said, eyeing the seated couple.

"I expect a few rains, actually, but good day to you, nonetheless, Citoyenne de Maupassant," Bahorel replied, standing up with Lucille, whose lips were in a polite curl as she addressed the woman in her own greeting.

Feuilly put a hand on his shoulder. "I trust that you're well now?"

His friend shrugged in nonchalance before replying, "I haven't found anything that could ease our minds. I asked help from Navet to ask around the people they know beg in this place since Gavroche is busy with Courfeyrac. But so far, my search has only led me to rumours and even more gossip. I can't have that – you know how I would prefer things ascertained."

"I understand. It would be harder for you, though, since you are rather conspicuous with the police," Feuilly remarked pointedly, even as he patted his shoulder before removing it.

Marion clucked her tongue. "You knew better than to squabble with the officers in Corinthe."

"He wouldn't have done that if those officers weren't being so obstinate with Madame Hucheloup's protestations of their rowdy behaviour," Lucille countered, her lips curving in ire as her fingers dug in the back of Bahorel's hand. "You know how they could be belligerent, and they did not even stop after three reminders. Sinclair was only helping, and it happened that they still chose not to listen."

Marion rolled her eyes, and retorted, "Yet fists were the answer?"

Sensing that the conflict would pursue between the women, Bahorel held the waist of Lucille to deter her from standing up and doing something worse while Feuilly diplomatically replied, "What's done is done. Let's just hope it would not be repeated for everyone's sake, especially Bossuet's."

Marion de Maupassant's shoulders were still tense with annoyance, but she nonetheless spoke no further. "That must be the boy, then," she noted, holding on to Feuilly's arm more tightly as a short brown-haired boy came up to them.

"Navet! How did it go?" Bahorel asked, handing the young gamin a few sous.

"Well, you're in luck! There was an old beggar – I think he was a cobbler once in Rue de Babylone – and he said he saw a suspicious fair-haired man wearing a hat, rather fine navy clothes, and dark gloves the day that the bald man was attacked. No name, though," Navet narrated rather quickly, feeling awkward at being eyed by the dark-haired woman.

"Thank you," Lucille gregariously replied, and the young boy nodded, feeling more at ease before departing.

Marion's lips curved, brows meeting in thought. "Perhaps someone pretending to be a police officer?"

Groaning, Bahorel replied tersely, "This was just like two years ago. It's harder to tell even more these days who's who."

Feuilly gritted his teeth. "Let's not be too hasty in making such a comparison. We'd best be more cautious, however."

The blonde-haired grisette nodded and proffered, "Well, it's good we have the meeting tomorrow at Corinthe. We can alert the rest there."

"I hope it'll bring more ease than unrest, though," Bahorel wryly commented, holding Lucille's hand more firmly.

* * *

"I thought I made it clear when I said I wanted no more part in this."

A blank look from the elderly man met Jean Valjean, as they stood in the shoe section of a dress shop in Rue de Babylone.

"Victor," the former convict continued, lips curving in lethargy. "This isn't my battle any longer. It's not mine to fight."

"I thought I made it clear when I said that anything in the future is plausible," Victor retorted. "Therefore, you should have expected that it would have come to this again." Scratching his beard, he handed Valjean two packages of varied sizes.

Holding these supposed 'presents' in front of him, Valjean shook his head in despair. "It will just heighten Javert's attention to me."

Victor crossed his arms. "All these years, and you are still too focused on yourself. Have you even noticed what it has done to her?" he asked acridly. "If you really want to secure her happiness, this is the only way to do it. We will have to fight with the revolutionaries. It's inevitable, as Elisabeth always said."

Feeling his temper rise, Valjean gave him no answer.

Sighing, the elder man continued, "You will find your old things in a hidden compartment below the dress and shoes in the boxes. Elisabeth bought them as gifts for your daughter."

"I'll think about it," was the only reply Valjean offered.


	7. Chapter 7: April 13, 1832

Chapter 7: April 13, 1832

Through his open window, a soft euphonious chirping of _La Marsellaise_ was heard by Courfeyrac, whose feet was propped up on the wall, as his brows met in concentration while reading _De Oratore_ by Marcus Tullius Cicero in preparation for Blondeau's oral examination a few days from now. Mentally translating the Latin to French was proving to be quite a headache, and he found himself feeling a bit envious at the ability of his friend Marius to command languages swiftly, fluidly, and delightfully. _All in thought, speech, reading, and even in interpretation,_ he said to himself, and then he shook his head. In the end, he closed his book with an irritated sigh, promising to come back to it later after their conventicle. _Maybe Enjolras can help discuss it while we are waiting on the others_ , he thought, standing up to open the door in his room.

A blonde urchin toothily looked up at him in greeting, as Courfeyrac gaily welcomed him to enter. "What news do you harbour, Gavroche?"

"Er, something for me, something for you, first?" the boy quipped, his limbs akimbo and lips curling roguishly.

Rolling his eyes, Courfeyrac chuckled before reaching from the pocket of his trousers a few sous to give to the gamin, who takes it as he ruffles his hair. "Well?"

Swatting his hand away, Gavorche responded, "We little pups are on it, but Navet and I will do most of the leading. The belly of the Lady is also ready, but I'll need to introduce the Chief to a guide."

Nodding at this, Courfeyrac rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Soon, I hope?"

"What's that certain word you all use - ah! Quinzaine! Yes, two weeks from now," Gavroche said, raising his chin in pride.

The dark-haired schoolboy ruffled his hair again, much to the annoyance of the gamin. "Ah, good, you're learning more vocabulary! Who taught you that? Prouvaire?"

"That's what you think, but no, I caught it from the Chief!"

"Well, it's better that it's words than guns, then."

"Eh! I can aim with a musket better than you!"

"Ha! You better not let Enjolras catch you doing that."

"What a bore."

"You better not let Enjolras catch you _saying_ that."

* * *

"There is a certain fragility in the pursuit of immortality. Whatever the method, it cannot end well. The body is just an ephemera, lost in the sands of time and frivolities of life. Only reverence at the uncertainty of the recollections of those that will be left behind. Little lives breathing between the shafts of light and darkness, blurred in the greyness of reality. This is the enigma of liberty - that which can only be salvaged and saved by what is vulnerable yet venerable. That which is fierce and a force unreckoned. That which is welcomed in the comeliness of the true purpose of humanity. Love. A certain solid foundation in the treatises of people and treaties of nations. This, which I speak no lightly of, is the substance of freedom, and it is realised perfectly through the will of the people. What ill that becomes of it lies in the flawed ambitions of the terrors of yesteryears that only gestated the destruction of Patria. Only the residue of the fervent dreams of her children remained. Yet here in lies the fitful threads of hope. It is for this reason that our coteries exist and our conventicles persist. No matter the errant nature of our ways in the eyes of our fallible laws. Status quo allows for the opportunity to be captured by us to commemorate it and transform it into a comeliness that is befitting Patria. This is the onus we thus find ourselves in, and mes amis fideles, that the combined labours of our communion may shake the stars into birth," Enjolras declared as he ended his speech. His midnight blue eyes shifted around, and if met by the light of the lamp in the dimly lit room, there was a certain shine around it, as if tears came but stilled as he maintained the resolve of the subject in his oration.

Satisfied at the weighted silence that followed his speech, he thus turned to his left side to nod to Courfeyrac, who proceeded with the session and relayed the agendas present for them to discuss. "In all your recent missives, which we have all gathered, the division that comes to light is this. Since our faction already went over the barricade plans last time, we will go last, also because Sinclair and a few others have something to say. Liberté de la Marianne will be with us in that. Thank you, Citoyenne Ferreira," the dark-haired schoolboy said, upon receiving a note and folding it for later. "Hence, in the urgency of matters, Les Iris de Force will lead the subject of funding, followed by Marché Bastille on the matter of supplies. When that is settled, L'œuvre de l'Homme on exercises and news to be given by Les Féminines Ferveurs shall be open for scrutiny. Are there any questions before I let Citoyenne de Maupassant begin?"

A cough in the lattermost part of the pub caught his attention, and Courfeyrac formed a polite curl on his lips as he saw who it was. "Yes, what is the matter, Citoyen Renault?"

"I understand that Les Amis de l'ABC is _familiar_ with the women contingents, but is it really within their capacity to be first? I realise that money is a pertinent matter, but surely supplies are of more weight? Especially in this revolution?" Lucien Renault from Marché Bastille inquired tersely, crossing his arms. A rather spiteful visage was framed upon his pursed lips, and the irritation in his dark eyes only pronounced his opposition to the order of the conventicle.

Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly were ready to counter him, but before any of them could, Citoyenne de Maupassant tapped her parasol unto the floor three times to get their attention. "You would not have supplies without a sustainable enabler, and that is money. You will do Rosseau no justice by hindering me. As it stands, some of his views are noble, but not the one describing the activities that befit a woman. I am more inclined towards Condorcet, if you will, so no more of this _pitiful_ attempt of yours to disturb the meeting."

"Sorry? What? I hardly think-" Lucien was about to continue until Citoyenne Eloise Ferreira glared at him with her fierce, nearly translucent grey eyes. " _What?_ Women do not belong in the barricades! They will just get hurt, and then all the more worry will be have had. The streets will just be filled with blood, and then what would you all do? Cry?"

At this, Citoyenne Ferreira stood, vitriol emanating from the way her fists were at her sides, as she angrily retorted, "How dare you, Citoyen? Really now? What of blood? If it's blood you are having problems with, I _firmly believe_ that we deal with it _every month!_ In that, we shall have _more_ experience than you ever will. Do us the service of politely sitting down in silence and waiting your turn."

Bahorel tried hard to stifle a guffaw, but a few chuckles found itself heard, and he abruptly saw Joly, who was hiding, and nearly shaking from the effort to contain giggles, and it just snapped him even more. Combeferre's eyes widened in worry as he looked up from the pamphlets he was reading on as he looked over his friends, but then he saw what was happening and lost it, as well. Suddenly, this catapulted the rest of the people in the room to erupt into laughter. It is this that made Lucien Renault roll his eyes, and sit defeatedly, his eyes turned to the ground. Feuilly felt a curl forming in his lips, but he fought it and was able to keep his face straight as he coughed and urged Courfeyrac to reclaim the order of the conventicle.

"Erm, everyone?" Courfeyrac waved his hands in front of him to once again get the din's attention, but he was failing rather spectacularly as Grantaire egged the ladies on to keep spiting the Marché Bastille leader.

"What a laugh! This is even better than Balzac's _La Comédie humaine_! Keep it gay, mes cheries! You all got him well!" Capital R exclaimed, laughing and then humming _Frères, Courons Aux Armes_ when he saw Prouvaire roll his eyes beside him.

" _Everyone?_ We need to focus, seriously, please?" Courfeyrac attempted once more when he saw the visage of Enjolras stiffening. He himself was rather perturbed at the way the conventicle has turned, but it can't really be helped. He tried again, if only to alleviate the tension in his friend's shoulders. He would have to remind Combeferre to talk with the Chief sooner or later about all this again.

When it was clear, however, that no one heeded him, he felt Enjolras pat his shoulder lightly as if to say _No matter, I'll handle this_. Courfeyrac nodded his gratitude, and merely quieted himself. The fair-haired student then stood up, pointedly looking at the source of all the excitement.

Jehan was one of the first to notice, and he tried nudging Grantaire, who was now busy opening another bottle to drink. The latter nudged him back in jest, but when he felt the ferocity of Enjolras's glare, he coughed and hushed himself.

Soon enough, all the contingents noticed the piercing look and became silent right away. Where speech failed, the tenacity of his stern gaze sufficed.

Combeferre sighed, shrugging at the look Feuilly gave him from beside their Chief.

Bahorel nudged Joly, and whispered, "I called it on the right night. I knew this conventicle would not pass without one glare from the Chief. You owe me." Groaning, their rather hypochondriac friend reached from his pocket and gave him some louis d'ors beneath the table.

Courfeyrac saw all this interaction, and tried hard not to laugh, for fear of instigating another riot, so he swallowed hard and clutched his pen tightly.

"Citoyenne de Maupassant, if you please," Enjolras interjected, not meeting her eyes and looking down as he sat.

"Very well," the Les Iris de Force leader responded, and proceeded to detail a financing scheme for all factions to follow. Soon after, suggestions here and there were made, and it was about eleven o'clock in the evening when all the agendas and reminders to look after each other and always have one or two companions were exhausted without further disturbances. Courfeyrac also told them that the contingents will be receiving letters on the date of their next conventicle soon before bidding them a farewell.

"Sinclair, why does your Chief appear not to gaze directly at women? Is he afraid, or something?" Citoyenne Da Silva inquired of her lover, holding his hand as they left Corinthe. "I find it odd, given the gifts he has."

A smirk on his lips, Bahorel touched her lip with a finger, and he replied, "He has no eye for any other woman other than Patria. He also dislikes the attention. But at best, Lucille, I think, it is because he is aware of it, so by neglecting the rest, he saves them from expecting too much of him. It's that, or I think you'd best ask Theo."

"How like a marble, don't you think?" she commented, kissing his cheek.

Bahorel laughed into the night before meeting her lips as they went home.

* * *

There he was at Rue Plumet. With _her_ , of all people.

Their eyes locked, longing tangible between them, and their hands - their hands holding each other's!

It was more than Eponine could take, but alas, it seemed that they were not done, and to her horror, she witnessed their kisses.

She gasped, her teeth gritting and hands balling into fists. _Mine. He's mine. How dare you, alouette? How dare you!_

Then she saw how Marius took this bourgeois brat's waist closer to him, and he sighed in her mouth, as _Cosette_ cupped his face with her hands, and eyed him with a certain earnestness that Eponine did not know, and it was all happening so fast as she felt her heart sink, sink deeply into the abyss of an unknown depth. She could only eye them as _her dear_ monsieur le baron ensconced her even nearer to him as their lips met again and again. And again.

The gamine blinked, and felt a certain wetness falling from her lids. "I love you," she snarled from afar, eyeing them bitterly as they continued muttering sweet things that she can never taste and murmuring places in high society she knows she will never visit.

"I love you," she repeated, this time more softly, as she hid in the shadows, feeling how distant her fantasies appeared now that she perceived it being blown away in this moment. Gone quite instantly.

Quickly, Eponine picked up the tatters of her skirt and ran to the place where she knew best to wonder freely.

* * *

Enjolras found himself quite alone, peering into the vastness of the Seine as he calmed himself after the occurrences at their conventicle. He sighed, wondering how else would they have handled the din in that room, had he not done what he had done.

 _I understand that this is your way of doing things, and there is no harm in what you do, I tell you. But the others are not as forthcoming at being understanding as we are, Combeferre reminded him apologetically, a few minutes after the termination of the meeting._

 _I'll bear that in mind, no matter,_ _he replied, leaving the room._

Once more, he sighed, walking away from the bridge, and he thus started to head back to his apartment. A lot of things weighed on in his mind. Already, he has read and prepared for Blondeau's examination, and even aided Courfeyrac in dissecting the topic, but satisfaction on the subject eluded him. Perhaps, it was because he wanted to finish that, and be done with it, so he could think better and be more active in more prevalent and urgent affairs. What with the attack on Bossuet and the mysteries his mother has not yet answered in her ciphers.

Victor told him that his mother will meet him soon, but the exact date remains to be yet ascertained. Enjolras put his hand inside his pocket, in order to balance his journal, their group's pamphlet, and more books carefully. He was going to turn right when a certain gamine bumped on him.

It was well and good that he was able to secure his belongings so it didn't fall off his hold. He was about to say something to the woman, whom he noticed was crying, but at the sight of her defiant stare, he held his tongue.

Silently, the gamine shook her head and walked away from him.

Enjolras watched her desolate figure slowly approaching the bridge, and he sighed, finding himself quite alone once more.


End file.
